Let Me Lie

by Clare Mackintosh

  “You’ve already involved us, Angela. And much as I sympathize with your situation, my priority is keeping Anna and our daughter safe, which means getting them the hell away from this house until your ex is safely behind bars.”

  “He’s right,” I say. “Mark’s flat’s in London—no one will know we’re there.” Ella squirms in my arms, awake and hungry.

  Mum’s face is pale. She’s searching for an argument but there are none to be had. This is the best way forward. Once we’re safely out of Eastbourne, Mark can call the police, and I’ll convince Mum that we have to come clean. There’s no other way.

  “I don’t want Anna and the baby with me,” Mum says. “It’s not safe.”

  “Given that your ex has just tried to set fire to our house, it’s hardly safe for them here.” Mark holds out the keys. “Go.”

  “Listen to him.” I put a hand on Mum’s arm. “Take us.” All I can think about is getting far away from Eastbourne. From Dad. From Murray Mackenzie and questions that circle around the truth.

  She sighs, relenting. “I’ll drive. You sit with Ella—we don’t want to have to stop.” She looks at Mark. “Be careful, won’t you? He’s dangerous.”

  “Call me when you’re at the flat. And don’t let anyone in except me. Understood?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mum grips the steering wheel, her eyes intent on the road. I’m in the back, Ella strapped into her seat beside me, sucking furiously on the knuckle of my thumb, in lieu of the breast she wants. It won’t be long before she starts crying for milk. Perhaps we can pull over once we’re safely away from Eastbourne.

  “Dad doesn’t even know Mark’s flat exists,” I repeat when I see Mum check the rearview mirror for the hundredth time since we left. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay.” She’s close to tears. “Nothing’s going to be okay.”

  I feel my own eyes stinging. I need her to be strong. I need her strong so that I can be strong. That’s the way it’s always been.

  I remember falling over as a child, feeling the searing pain in my skinned knee.

  “Upsy-daisy!” Mum would sing, pulling me to my feet. I’d read her face and see her smile, and without actively thinking whether it hurt more or less, I would feel the pain of my skinned knee slipping away.

  “The police were always going to find out, Mum.”

  In the mirror, her face is ashen.

  “It’s Dad they’ll go for. They’ll go easy on you—they’ll see you were forced into it. You probably won’t even go to prison; you’ll get a suspended sentence . . .”

  She’s not listening. She’s scanning the street, looking for something—looking for Dad?—and suddenly she slams on the hand brake and I shoot forward, the lap strap in the middle seat of my car doing little to hold me back.

  “Get out.”

  “What?” We’re on the outskirts of Eastbourne.

  “There’s a bus stop, just there. Or you can ring Mark to come and pick you up.” Her foot rests on the clutch, her hand on the brake. She’s crying now. “It was never meant to be like this, Anna. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I never meant for you to be involved.”

  I don’t move. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Please, Anna—it’s for your own good.”

  “We’re in this together.”

  She waits a full ten seconds. Then, with a sound that is midway between a cry and a moan, she releases the hand brake and carries on driving.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are.” All those years of her mopping up my tears and sticking Band-Aids on my knees, and now I am the strong one. It’s Mum who needs me. I wonder if this metamorphosis has taken place only because of the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves, or whether this is the natural progression of women as they move from daughter to mother.

  We drive in silence, except for Ella, who has progressed from fractious squawks to full-blown wails.

  “Can we stop again?”

  “We can’t.” Mum’s checking the rearview mirror again. And again.

  “Just for five minutes. She won’t stop if I don’t feed her.”

  Mum’s eyes flick from the mirror to the road and back. She’s seen something.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a black Mitsubishi behind us.” She presses hard on the accelerator and the burst of speed pushes me against my seat. “It’s following us.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-THREE

  When you spend your life selling cars, you learn how to handle them.

  Foot hard against the floor. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy. Seventy-five . . .

  A sharp corner. One, then another. We’ve both taken it too wide. I see the terrified look of the oncoming driver, the jerk of his hands as he swerves from our path.

  Into the next bend, tapping the brakes but using the gears. Changing down, down, down. Spinning the wheel and then flooring the accelerator till it feels as though the back end of the car is going faster than the front.

  The gap narrows.

  My pulse races so fast I can hear it above the roar of the engine, and I lean forward as though the movement will make a difference.

  Cat and mouse.

  Who will win?

  Driving fast means thinking fast. Reacting fast. Not skills that an alcoholic has—even a high-functioning one—and it’s just another reason among many that I’m glad I quit drinking.

  It was easy, in the end. No AA meetings, no therapy, no intervention from well-meaning friends.

  Just you.

  The look in your eyes when you fell to the floor that night. It meant nothing at the time; it was just another fight. Another punch, another kick. It was only afterward, when I remembered your face—saw the disappointment, the pain, the fear—that I finally understood what the drink had made me do to you.

  No. What I’d done to you.

  I’m sorry. It’s not enough, and it’s too late, but I’m sorry.

  I’ve slowed down. I need to focus. I grip the steering wheel; force my foot back down.

  How did it come to this?

  I want to rewind; undo my mistakes. I’ve messed up. Spent our entire marriage thinking about me, and now look at us.

  What am I doing?

  I can’t stop. I’m in too deep.

  Anna.

  She’s there—in the backseat. Ducking down, trying to stay hidden. I catch a glimpse as she peers up to look out of the back window. Trying to see without being seen.

  Failing.

  I never wanted to hurt her.

  It’s too late.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-FOUR

  ANNA

  I twist in my seat. Behind us is a brand-new Mitsubishi Shogun, a steady hundred yards away, but gaining. The windows are tinted—I can’t see the driver.

  “Is it him? Is it Dad?”

  I’ve never seen my mother like this. Shaking with barely controlled fear. “You should have got out. I tried to make you get out.” She looks again in the mirror, then yanks the wheel to the right to avoid a discarded piece of bumper lying on the road. My stomach lurches.

  “Concentrate on driving.”

  “Keep down—he might not have seen you. I don’t want him knowing you’re with me.”

  I respond automatically to my mother’s instructions, the way I always have, unclipping my seat belt, pulling my legs to one side and leaning over Ella’s car seat. Mum pulls a sharp left and I brace myself against the car door, sliding across the top of Ella’s seat. She lets out a cry of alarm and I try to soothe her, but my heart feels like it might seize up, and my “shhh, shhh” is more hysterical than her own wails. The backs of my knees are wet with sweat, my palms hot and clammy.

  “It’s still following!” Gradually, my
mother’s air of control is disappearing, cracking to reveal the same blind panic I feel surging inside me. “And getting closer!”

  Ella’s cries intensify, each scream building in volume and pitch as she tunes in to her grandmother’s hysteria. I have one hand planted on the inside of the door, the other on the back of the driver’s seat. Within the semicircle of my arms is Ella, screaming inches from my ear. The sound finds my left eardrum and departs with a ringing that offers no letup as she draws breath for another cry. I pull my phone from my pocket; swipe to unlock it. There is no option left but to call the police.

  “Drive faster!”

  Another lurch to the left, swiftly followed by a right turn that loosens my grip around Ella’s car seat and sends me into a painful heap on the floor on the opposite side of the car. My phone shoots under the passenger seat and out of arm’s reach. Mum floors the accelerator and I crawl back up to wrap my arms around Ella’s seat. I move my head up, not wanting to see him, my father, but unable to stop myself from looking.

  Mum screams at me. “Stay down!”

  Ella stops crying, jolted into silence, then draws breath and screams again.

  In the rearview mirror I see tears stream down Mum’s face, and like a child who cries only when she sees her mother’s mask slip, I lose it, too. This is it. We’re going to die. I wonder if Dad will ram the car, or push us off the road. If he wants to kill us, or keep us alive. I brace myself for impact.

  “Anna.” Mum’s voice is urgent. “In my bag . . . When I knew I’d been found, I was so scared I . . .”

  Another sharp turn. Squealing brakes.

  “I never planned to use it—it was insurance. In case . . .” She stumbles. “In case he caught up with me.”

  Still half lying across the backseat, my feet braced against the passenger seat and the door, I open the bag by my feet, root around in the clothes I saw her packing just an hour or so ago. It feels like a lifetime.

  I snatch back my hand.

  My mother has a gun.

  She turns the wheel as if she’s playing bumper cars. My head slams against the car door. Ella screams. I swallow, tasting vomit in the back of my throat.

  “A gun?” I’m not touching it.

  “I got it from the man I rented a flat from.” The effort of keeping the car on the road forces her words out as though each follows a full stop. “It’s loaded. Take it. Protect yourself. Protect Ella.”

  There’s a squeal of brakes as she takes a bend too fast. The car fishtails—skids left, then right—before she takes back control. I close my eyes. Hear the gear stick, the pedals, the engine.

  A sharp left. The top of my head jammed against the door, the handle of Ella’s car seat pressed into my chest.

  The car slides to a juddering stop.

  And there’s silence.

  Then I hear my mother’s breathing, tense and ragged. I move my face until my lips are touching my daughter’s and swear silently to her I will die before I let her come to harm.

  I will die.

  Would I use the gun? Slowly, I reach for it. I feel the weight of the grip in my hand, but I don’t lift it.

  Protect yourself. Protect Ella.

  Would I kill my own father to save my daughter? To save myself?

  I would.

  I screw my eyes shut, listening for a car door. For the sound of Dad’s voice.

  We wait.

  “We’ve lost him.”

  I hear my mother’s words, but they don’t register. My body is still rigid, my nerve endings still jangling.

  “That last bend.” She’s out of breath. “We turned off before he rounded the corner. He didn’t see.” She bursts into noisy tears. “He didn’t see us turn off.”

  Slowly I sit up and look around. We are on a farm track, half a mile or so away from where a parting between hedges shows where the road is. There are no other cars.

  I unclip the fastenings on Ella’s seat and pull her to me, kissing the top of her head and holding her so tightly she wriggles to be let free. I lift my T-shirt and unclip my bra, and she feeds thirstily. We relax into each other and I realize my body has been craving this as much as hers has.

  “A gun?” It doesn’t sound real. “A fucking gun?” I pick up the bag and place it on the front seat next to her. It was less than three feet from Ella’s head. I don’t let myself think what might have happened if it had gone off; if I’d picked up the bag the wrong way, stepped on it . . .

  Mum says nothing. Her hands are still gripping the steering wheel. If she’s having some kind of breakdown, I need to get her into the passenger seat. I wonder if we should abandon the plan and drive to a police station. Whatever we do, we need to go soon; we’re sitting ducks here, in open countryside. Dad’ll realize we turned off; he’ll double back.

  “I told you. It was insurance. I don’t even know how the bloody thing works.”

  I pull Ella gently off my breast and feel under the seats for my phone. There’s a text from Mark.

  No sign of the ex yet. Have texted everyone to cancel the party. Police are on their way. They need Angela’s date of birth and address. Call me!

  I dodge the request.

  Black Shogun followed us but we managed to lose him. Will call when we get to the flat. Love you x

  A deep breath heads off the tears. “Let’s go. We should use the back roads till we hit the motorway.” I strap Ella back in and put on my own seat belt. We drive—more carefully now, although with no less urgency—on winding secondary roads within spitting distance of the A23. The twists and turns—and the frequency with which I turn around to check on the cars behind us—make me nauseous, and the journey seems to go on forever.

  We don’t talk. I try, twice, but Mum’s in no fit state to make plans. I just need her to get us to Mark’s flat in one piece.

  I feel better once we’re on the M23. The motorway is busy; we are in one of thousands of cars on their way to London. The chances of my father finding us here are tiny, and if he did, what would he do, with so many witnesses? So many cameras? I catch my mother’s eye and give her a small smile. She doesn’t return it, and I feel my anxiety well up in response. I scan the surrounding cars for the Shogun.

  We join the M25. I look into the cars on either side of us. Most are packed with families heading home after Christmas, or to friends for New Year’s, the seats piled high with presents and spare duvets. A couple in a beat-up Astra are singing enthusiastically, and I picture the CD of classic hits in the car stereo.

  My phone rings; an unfamiliar number on the screen.

  “Miss Johnson?”

  Murray Mackenzie. I curse myself for answering; contemplate hanging up and blaming a bad line.

  “I’ve got something to tell you. Something . . . unexpected. Is someone with you?”

  I glance at my mother. “Yes, I’m in the car. My . . . A friend’s driving—it’s okay.” In the rearview mirror my mother looks quizzical and I shake my head to tell her it’s nothing to worry about. She moves into the fast lane, seeking speed again now we’re so close to safety.

  Murray Mackenzie seems to be struggling to find the right words. He starts several sentences, none of them making sense.

  “What on earth has happened?” I say eventually. My mother’s eyes watch me in the mirror, flicking between me and the road. Anxious on my behalf.

  “I’m sorry to break this to you over the phone,” Murray says, “but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible. Officers are at your house now. I’m afraid they’ve found a body.”

  I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a cry. Mark.

  We should never have gone. We should never have left him to face my father.

  Murray Mackenzie is still going. He’s talking about fingerprints and deterioration and DNA and a tentative ID and—

  I interrupt, unable to process what I t
hink I heard. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “We can’t be certain, but early indication suggests the body is your father. I’m so sorry.”

  The relief I feel that we’re safe is instantly tempered by the knowledge that the only person at Oak View when we left was Mark.

  I’ll wait here and call the police.

  What if Dad showed up before the police arrived? Mark’s strong; he can take care of himself. Did he attack my father? Defend himself?

  “How did he die?”

  I try to work out how long it’s been since the Shogun was behind us. Why would Dad go back to Oak View, when he knew we wouldn’t be there? Even if he doubled back straightaway, how could he have gotten there so quickly? In the rearview mirror, my mother is frowning. Hearing half a conversation, even more confused than I am.

  “We’ll have to wait for the postmortem to be certain, but I’m afraid there’s no doubt he was murdered. I’m so sorry.”

  I feel hot, the nausea returning. Has Mark killed my dad?

  Self-defense. It would have been self-defense. He can’t go to prison for that, can he?

  There’s something pulling at the corners of my mind, like a child tugging my hand and telling me to look . . . I wonder if my mother is following this; if, in spite of herself, she feels a tug of sorrow at the death of a man she presumably once loved. But in the rearview mirror her eyes are cold. Whatever was once between my parents died a long time ago.

  Murray is talking, and I’m thinking, and my mother is staring at me in the rearview mirror, and there’s something about the look in her eyes . . .

  “. . . in the septic tank for at least twelve months, probably longer,” Murray is saying.

  In the septic tank.

  This has nothing to do with Mark.

  I picture the narrow, well-like hole in the garden of Oak View; the bay tree in the heavy pot. I remember Mum’s insistence that we move the pot away; think of her obsession over Robert Drake’s extension. The extension that required digging up the disused tank.

  She knew. She knew he was there.